Page 22 of Whiskey Proposal

He nods. In a blender, he adds water, honey, and watermelon. He purees that and adds ice and the cucumber vodka to a shaker. The ice clatters against the metal as he shakes, then he strains it into a martini glass. To that, he adds a sprig of mint and a cucumber slice.

My mouth waters. I love cucumbers. They’re easy to grow. I haven’t had a garden since I was a kid, but I eat them all the time. I chew on them and slap some slices on my eyes after a long day in front of the computer.

I grab the glass and take a drink. His focus is on my mouth. My eyelids flutter when the sweet flavor hits my tongue. “Mmm.”

His pupils dilate. “Christ, Em.”

It’s the same look he got before he kissed me. The slippery glass threatens to drop right through my fingers. I set it down. My pulse goes haywire. “It’s good.”

He glances away for a moment before leaning into his hands on the counter. “How are your legs?”

“Tender, but a day of shopping helped loosen them up.” A massage would’ve done that too, but I was safer riding out the pain. My nipples are hard just from the way he looks at me. Need has ignited between my legs. If he flirts—at all—I will not walk out of here with dry underwear. I’m more than my unruly hormones. They’ve gotten me into enough messes with guys, and once cost me my job. I’m not losing my heart.

I take another drink. More of a gulp, really. “So. You help run two distilleries, you ranch with your brother, and you bartend.”

“I can’t live off the tips I make here.”

“How much have you made tonight?”

He pulls over the tablet he was working on earlier. “Fifteen dollars and ten cents.”

“The ten cents is what puts you over the top. You should donate it.”

“We do.”

Likes dogs. Donates his tips. I haven’t seen him help someone across the street, but he’s probably done it. Unfortunately, not all good men make good partners. “That’s nice.”

He lifts a shoulder and starts cleaning up the dishes he used for my martini. “How was Billings?”

“Bougie.”

He barks out a laugh, and a flash of pride hits my veins like adrenaline. That laugh is honest. No games. I made him do that.

“Bourgeois. Yep, it’s gotten like that,” he says. “Did you go downtown?”

“Drove through it. Talk about a downtown revival.”

“We participate in a street fair there every year. It’s massive and we sell a lot.”

Does he need someone to advertise for that? I could use the work. It brings up another question. “I never understood what the point of Foster House Gold is. Just to do other things?”

“It’s for fun.”

I give him a flat look. “And for profit.”

“Of course. Can’t give back if we’re barely getting by.”

“So who does your marketing?” I didn’t see anyone referenced on their website.

“The team from Foster House, but Iverson and I do a lot. This stuff is mostly word of mouth, vendor booths, a real grassroots movement.”

They’re not after national distribution like Foster House. But it’s lucrative. Myles managed to launch two empires from barely nothing, and I lost a prebiotic soda account to an old coworker who decided to poach my prospects for his own.

I down the rest of my martini. Something’s been gnawing at me, and I have to ask. “You found Hutch?”

He nods, his expression unchanging.

“I’m sorry.”